


Is It A White Christmas Yet?

by Doilooklikeicareatall



Series: 2013 Advent Challenge (which has now built onto 2014 because I'm bloody lazy) [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Kiss, Gen, Hella fluffy, Um what else, also jumpers, and fluff does too, awful awful jumpers, but not yet, fulfilling friend duties, idk just read the damn story it has what i am telling you, it's December!!, john knows whats up, or maybe not as a friend, silly sherlock went outside, sooooo many tags, tea solves everything, technically kissing but not exactly, wink wink, wow nice job sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-02
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-03 06:06:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 14,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1066974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doilooklikeicareatall/pseuds/Doilooklikeicareatall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a series of one-shots, all connected, about the daily lives of Sherlock, John, and the people around them during the month of December.<br/>-----<br/>This is made for AikoIsari's Advent Challenge.<br/>-----<br/>Hope you all enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Is It A White Christmas Yet?

It was the beginning of December, and already, John was seeing blankets of snow all through London.

On his way to the surgery, he recieved a text from his idiot flatmate. _Need keys, locked myself out. SH_

John sighed at this. It was most likely just a ploy to keep him from leaving the house. Sherlock had been acting rather strangely lately, almost jumpy and nervous, as if he were trying to do something John wouldn’t be pleased about, like pouring battery acid on the kitchen table, or experimenting on human flesh again. Every time the man had asked, Sherlock just froze up, and gave him a glare that was colder than the piling snow outside. “Honestly, John, if I was hiding something, I would obviously hide it well enough that you wouldn’t know about it.”

Another text arrived, this time with an attached picture. John looked at it warily, hoping it wasn’t another picture of his experiments, before taking a deep breath and opening it, only to find it was a picture of Sherlock’s feet, submerged in snow, and looking as if they were about to freeze off. The text read: _Could you come and unlock the door for me? My feet are cold. SH_

John huffed out a laugh, before texting back, _Of course they are, you idiot. You’re standing in the snow! Can’t Mrs Hudson unlock the door? JW_

John sent this, just as he realised that Mrs Hudson had gone to visit her sister in Sussex for the holidays.

He quickly sent another text, saying _Oh, fuck. Be right there. JW_

By the time John arrived, Sherlock, who was looking quite cold in his blue dressing gown and pyjamas, gave him an annoyed glare. “What took you so long, John? My feet could fall off, and then I couldn’t go out on cases!” The blonde chuckled at this, as he said, “Sherlock, your feet aren’t going to fall off. They’ll be cold for a bit, but a sit in front of the fire with some tea will do you a world of good.”

He climbed up the stairs, unlocked the door, and guided a shivering Sherlock inside, and onto the couch, where he wrapped the paler-than-usual man in a thick blanket. He then went to boil the kettle and send a text to Sarah, saying he wouldn’t be in today. He then glanced up at Sherlock, who was gazing out the window with a soft smile. He was watching the snow, which seemed to be falling slowly past the window, fluttering and floating down.

His eyes reflected the snow, bright silver in the dim morning light. And, as John turned, to go ahead making the tea, those silver eyes flickered over to him, and the smile got just a little brighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapters theme was 'snow'!  
> \---  
> Okay, this is probably going to have ages of maintenance, with me screeching and trying to work out what the hell I'm doing (I've never made a series before) thus there will be messing about and I apologise.  
> \---  
> Feedback is always hella appreciated! :)


	2. Really, You Too? (a story about how everyone took offence to John's jumpers)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a pattern, Sherlock had realised. The first jumper was fine, and then the rest fell into a Christmassy oblivion.
> 
> In which, John has Christmas jumpers and no one likes them

The first jumper wasn’t so bad, Sherlock reflected later. It was a sage green one, and it brought out the blue in John’s eyes. He wore it the day he went out for Christmas shopping, returning with bags in hand and a smile on his face. When I tried to peek into the bag, he slapped me on the wrist ( _like a misbehaving child! Honestly_ ) and told me in no uncertain terms that if I tried to touch the bag again, he would bin my new experiment on the fresh elbows Molly gave me as an early present. He then proceeded to hide the bag somewhere he thought I wouldn’t find- _Really? The laundry, John? I know I don’t **do** the laundry, but do you honestly think I wouldn’t be able to find it in there?_ \- and went back out, saying something about Lestrade, but I was already immersed in testing the resilience of the cartilage once introduced to certain chemicals and formulas.

 

It was the second jumper that began the downward spiral. It was a tatty-looking red one, with what appeared to be reindeers at the bottom hem. John played with this hem nervously as I observed the crime scene - _regular suicide, far too common around this time of year, not even a five in the end_ \- and I noticed Lestrade walk over and begin a conversation. It seemed to be a rather delicate topic, as Lestrade seemed to get more and more embarrassed, as John got more and more annoyed. I strode up to them, case aside for a second, and said, “Lestrade, are you bothering John?” The two of them gave me a strange look. “No, I was just… mentioning his… interesting choice of jumper for today.” I gave him a triumphant grin at that, before turning to John. “See? I’m not the only one that abhors your choice in jumpers!” I then decided - smartly - to walk away, noticing the frustrated and furious look on my blogger’s face.

 

The one after was a few weeks later. John had seen the error of his ways and changed back to his normal jumpers for a while, but, I strode into the kitchen after a post-case sleep, only to find John cooking pancakes in an appalling green and red striped monstrosity. I leaned against the doorway to watch him cook for a while, humming Christmas songs to himself with a fond smile.

Upon noticing me, he gave a slight jump, as if he were ashamed to be seen so happy in my presence. I gave him a tiny smile, and stepped into the kitchen before asking, “Did you make enough pancakes for me, too?” He grinned, and handed me a plate of pancakes, already flavored with lemon juice and sugar. I smiled hesitantly back as I took the plate and sat down, as Mrs Hudson walked in, saying, “Hello loves, just thought I’d pop in to check up on-” she stopped as she caught sight of John. “What on _Earth_ are you wearing, John, dear?” She looked a mix of terrified and mildly disgusted. I figured I wouldn’t be the only one to think so. John exclaimed, “What does everyone have against my jumpers?!” before he stormed upstairs, presumably to sulk.

 

But the worst was always the one he wore at the same time every year- _it **always** seemed to fit him_ \- and it always made him look awful. It was black, and red, and brown, and perhaps it had been a reindeer, but now it just looked confusing. John wore it with a forced cheerfulness, and gave me a baleful glare upon seeing me in the morning, as if daring me to mention it.

 

A client came in that day, and gave John a bewildered look. She asked quietly to me, while John was out of earshot, “Is he aware that that jumper is awful?” I just gave a shrug.

 

In the end, John stopped wearing his Christmas jumpers, all except the one he reserved for Christmas day, and the sage green one I told him to keep. He handed them all to me with a resigned look. “Do with them what you will, Sherlock. Nobody seems to like them.”

 

I just pushed them back into his hands, as I said quietly, “I still like them. No matter how stupid, and awful they are.”

 

And he just looked at me for a second, gauging my sincerity, before giving me a blinding smile, one I craved being on the receiving end of. “Thanks, Sherlock.”

  
Then he walked up to his room to put them back, and I called after him, “But don’t wear them outside, you’re scaring the public!” and I was treated to warm laughter echoing down the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I posted this as a seperate bit to begin with (you can tell I'm awful at this) until I figured out what happened, so here we are, a second chapter is here!  
> \---  
> If anyone has any feedback or just a 'hi', leave it in the comment bit, I know there should be one here.  
> Kudos and feedback are really appreciated :)


	3. What a peculiar thing to do...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas gifts are given early. John is confused. Everyone is confused.  
> And why the hell haven't I used barely anything to do with today's theme.  
> \---  
> Hope you guys enjoy!

“John, if you were to kill anyone around this time of year, what would you use?”

The question came from out of nowhere, and I stiffened and turned to look at Sherlock, who was leaning against the table in the kitchen, phone in hand, fingers flitting over the screen.

 

“Why are you asking me that?” I narrowed my eyes at him. He never hesitated to ask the stupidest questions, and when I asked, he would exclaim, _For a case, John!_ or _Why don’t you deduce it for yourself?_. The questions that recieved the latter as an answer were more personal questions. Once, Sherlock had asked why I only used soap after I put in shampoo, and another time, he had asked why I only had one major injury from the war. Both times, I just gave him a fierce glare, the _fuck off Sherlock I’m not in the mood for this_ glare, and, with a pout, he would go back to whatever barmy experiment he was cooking up.

 

Sherlock responded dryly, “Because I’m planning on going on a Christmas murder spree, John, obviously it’s for a case.” His sly mocking made me glare at him, though it was more the _how do I ever put up with you?_ type of glare. And the look he sometimes gave me in response said _I have no idea_.

 

“Anyway,” he continued, and I was jerked from my train of thought, “What would you use? Something that reflects the season, that would make enough noise to be noticed, but not enough to be caught, something that would be instantly identifiable as a weapon.” He looked at me expectantly, and I knew he already knew the correct answer to this puzzle, he just wanted to see if an average mind could sort it out as well.

 

“God, Sherlock, I don’t know. A bell? A glass snow dome?” My tone was sarcastic, so it was to my utter shock that Sherlock grinned, and got up.

 

“You’re exactly right, John. A bell.” He wound his scarf around his neck, slid on his long coat, and looked at me for a second. “Coming, John?”

 

I shook my head at this, inclining my head toward the book I had been reading before Sherlock decided to ask strange questions. “I’d like to get this finished by Christmas, I had planned on getting myself the next book in the series as a little gift.”

 

The detective’s brow furrowed at that. “Aren’t other people supposed to get you gifts? Friends, family?”

 

I nodded, and said, “But, honestly, nobody ever gets me a good gift. Lestrade just takes me out for a pint, or he gets me a nice bottle of whiskey, Mrs Hudson always gets me a jumper or socks, the one time Molly got me anything, it was a box of sweets, and you certainly never buy presents. That covers the friends bit. Harry can’t be bothered to pick up the phone and text half the time, let alone get me a gift, my Da is too old to consider that sort of stuff, and Mum’s been dead for ages. There’s the family. So I can’t really let anyone get me anything. So I do my own Christmas shopping, so I actually get what I want.” I shrug after trailing off, and mutter, “It isn’t as if people know me well enough to get me a gift, anyway.”

 

When I look up, Sherlock is giving me a thoughtful look, eyes slightly troubled. Then he comes over to my chair and places a large hand on my shoulder, as he says, “I’m sorry about your mother. You never mentioned it.”

 

Before I can respond, he’s already on his way out.

 

I roll my eyes and go back to my book, but can’t help thinking about that tentative touch for a little.

 

\--

 

It’s late at night by the time Sherlock returns, two bundles in his hand. One is clearly an evidence bag, containing a bloodstained bell, and the other seems to be a small parcel, unlabelled, no conspicuous wrapping.

 

I’m sitting in my armchair, at the last few pages of the book, and I call out a soft hello, to which there is no response. I look up to properly greet him, and he is standing right there, directly in front of me, holding out the small parcel with an unreadable expression. I take the parcel quietly, thinking that perhaps it was from in the mail, that perhaps Harry had sent a gift after all.

 

After unwrapping it, I could only sit and stare at the contents. There was a new mug, along with some nice-smelling tea bags, a thin-feeling maroon scarf, and a copy of the book I had mentioned I wished to get. At the top was a small card that read _I know I have not been as considerate a friend as I should be, and this is an attempt to remedy that. I hope you will like the tea, the scent reminded me of you. And I know you always mention that your neck gets cold due to your military haircut, so I got you this scarf. And I suppose you understand why I got the book. This is me making up for the Christmases I forgot to celebrate, and the ones I never got a chance to. Happy Christmas, John. SH_

 

I don’t know how long I sat there, fingers mindlessly stroking over the fabric of the scarf, just dense enough to block the air but not thick enough that it would be constricting. I glanced up again, and Sherlock was no longer there, his coat and scarf hung up on the coatrack.

 

I paused for a moment before cautiously making my way to his room, and knocking quietly on the door, unsure whether the room was occupied. An annoyed sounding, “Don’t hover at the door, John, just come in,” could be heard through the wood, and I smiled ruefully to myself as I entered.

 

Sherlock sat up against the headboard of his bed, watching me calmly as I stepped forward, fidgeting with my hands nervously. “Yes?” he asked, voice slightly deeper from sleep. He looked exhausted, almost boneless, and his eyes were half lidded, yet still sharp as they watched me.

 

I had the strangest urge to shiver, but I refrained, and instead quietly murmured, “Thank you very much for the gifts, Sherlock. They were the most thoughtful things I’ve received since Ma died.”

 

He looks taken aback at this, before regaining his composure and replying solemnly, “It was my pleasure.”

 

I stand awkwardly by the doorway, before smiling again. “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

 

He smiles back, a small smile, as he says, “Goodnight, John.”

 

I leave the room, and I can’t help but think for a second, as I make my way upstairs.

 

_Sherlock bought me gifts. Actual gifts, not just little trinkets he stole from one place or another. He went out, case aside, and bought me things. Why would he do that?_

  
I settled in bed, and couldn’t help but look outside and gaze at the small framed photo that Mrs Hudson had once given me, of Sherlock and I, presumably passed out after a case. He was sprawled out in his armchair, and I was fully laying on the couch. His face was drawn in a soft smile, one that I had never seen him wear before this, and I couldn’t help but just look at it sometimes. I glanced at it now, and pretended that, perhaps, that smile was for me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's theme was 'bells'', although there was only a few mentions (God, falling off plot lines like whoa)  
> \---  
> As ever, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated, even if it's just to correct a typo! 
> 
> \---  
> Also, if anyone notices any major problems, I must warn you I have no beta or Brit-picker for this, so any horrible mistake I make is mine and mine alone! :D  
> \--  
> Now this is getting really long, um, have a nice day!!


	4. So, That's A No To The Pudding?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes shopping, Sherlock passes out. Basically just a normal day for the two.  
> With added OC goodness.  
> \---  
> Hope you enjoy!

After a week of Sherlock refusing to get any sleep, he seemingly passed out in the living room, while in the middle of a sentence. No joke, he started out with, “Now, John, I hope you don’t mind, but I’ll be doing a rather dangerous experiment this afternoon. It involves-” John never got to find out what it involved, because there was an ominous sounding thump, as the consulting detective crumpled to the ground. John hurried over, already worried, but as he heard snoring erupting from the tall man, he chuckled, before heaving him up and laying him down on the couch.

 

John stood and watched Sherlock for a while, soft breaths moving the man’s shoulders, a calm, sleepy expression on his face. John smiled at this, and decided he’d go out to shop for food. He needed to get all the things for Christmas before all of the food was sold out. He grabbed his new scarf and wound it around his neck, shrugged on his coat, and grabbed his wallet before he left.

 

\--

 

Tesco wasn’t nearly as crowded as John had expected it to be, there were a few bustling families, old women, a few younger women, and the youngest seemed to be a teenage girl, squinting at the shopping list, eyeing the shelves in confusion. Because John felt rather giving today, he made his way over to the girl, and asked, “Hi. Do you need any help with that?”

 

She looked up at him, dark hazel eyes confused and slightly annoyed. “Um, yes, I think I might need a little help. I can barely read this bleeding list.” She blushed, and said, “Oh, my apologies, my da keeps telling me not to curse in public, but-”

 

John cut her off with a grin, as he said, “No worries, I’m rather prone to it myself. Now, shall we see where everything on this list is?”

 

She nodded eagerly, her dark hair falling into her eyes with that movement.

 

The two travelled up and down the aisles, gathering the things she needed, and John fell into a quiet contentment, talking every once in a while to the visibly relieved girl.

 

Well, he was in contentment until a frazzled-looking Sherlock entered. John let out an audible sigh at the sight of his flatmate, and Sherlock noticed him, and headed over, smiling a little.

 

“Afternoon, John. You wouldn’t happen to know where the painkillers went? I woke up with a headache and couldn’t find any.” He then spotted the girl. “And who is this, then?”

 

The girl, who had been frozen in something akin to shock, now blushed furiously, and said quietly, “Ah.. John was helping me with the shopping.” She looked up and smiled at him, a smile that Sherlock returned, much to John’s surprise.

 

“Is that so? Well, nice to see you’re in capable hands. Now, John. Back to the painkillers.” Sherlock gave John a wondering look, his friendly smile entirely at odds with the familiar picture in John’s head.

 

“We… we ran out.. wait, do you know her?” John asked, confusion ratcheting with every passing second.

 

The girl nodded happily. “Mr. Holmes helps keep my family off the streets.”

 

The taller man said, “Well, technically I do. Have you got any messages, then?” _Oh_ , John thought. _The Homeless Network, then. Funny, she doesn’t seem to look homeless at all._

 

She nodded again, and retrieved a scrap of paper from her pocket, handing it to him, and he passed her what seemed to be a sweet from the pocket of his coat. She took it with a grin. “Thankyou, Mr. Holmes, my sister loves these. Is there anything else you require, while I’m here? Me and John have gotten almost all the shopping done, and I need to get going, Ma and Da are moving again this evening and I need to get back before then.”

 

“No, Belle, that will be all, you and John enjoy your shopping.” He then turned to John, and said, “We need painkillers and more patches, also some mince pies, because this is the only time of year they sell the good ones.”

 

John was just left to stammer, “And… pudding, too then? Turkey, gravy, all that? Wouldn’t have pegged you for the type to eat Christmas food, Sherlock.”

 

He was then treated to one of Sherlock’s fiercest glares, and with that, the tall man walked back out.

 

John called after him, “So, that’s a no to the pudding?” before laughing and turning back to Belle, who was also laughing. Together, they finished the shopping, and, after a promise to meet again another time to help with more shopping, John set off for home.

 

As soon as John entered the flat, he heard a quiet voice from the kitchen. “You wore your scarf today.”

 

John nodded slowly. “Yeah, it was chilly. So?”

 

Sherlock just shrugged and got up. “It just… it looked nice.”

  
Then he went into his bedroom and shut the door behind him, leaving John to stare after him in utter bewilderment.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's theme was (I hope you noticed) 'food'. If you didn't notice, then I am awful at sticking to the original prompt and I need to get my act together :3  
> \---  
> As ever, kudos and feedback are hella appreciated!  
> \---  
> Also, I keep forgetting to mention I have a tumblr. So, yeah, I have one of those, my url is the same as my username, it's doilooklikeicareatall (though I am considering changing it for the holiday season)! So come check me out there, I post... well, basically anything.  
> \---  
> Have a hella great day, and I hope your December is going well!


	5. My God, You’re Serious. (Also known as the day Sherlock played the violin)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock had a row. Sherlock has an interesting way of apologising.

John, as a volunteer for the Christmas hospital program, loved kids. He spent time with the sick children that couldn’t enjoy Christmas the way they deserved, told them stories- mostly about Sherlock- as well as little medical facts that made the children giggle in delight.

 

Wednesday should have been another of those days, John stopping in for a few hours before and after work, always smiling brightly for the kids, before heading home to an annoyed Sherlock, who would then subject him to another lecture about _Don’t you know that it’s necessary to have you around, what if there’s a case, what if I suddenly have a heart attack_ , and John would usually tune out and go to make a cup of tea for the two of them, and by the time he handed the tea to Sherlock, he was usually forgiven.

 

But that morning was different. John had gotten into yet another row with Sherlock about why it was necessary to visit the children at all.

_“But, John, Lestrade texted me, he said there was a case!” Sherlock explained, lips tight with impatience._

_“No, Sherlock, those kids are all alone, sick and sad, and I like talking to them, unlike some poncy git that will not be named!” John’s voice had risen to a shout by then, and Sherlock had looked… almost offended._

_“Well, fine then! If you take such offence to me, just go!” His voice was raised by the end, and he glared at John, fuming. John was slightly confused by this, and his anger faded slightly, but not enough to stop him from leaving. He still wore the scarf, but he didn’t speak a word as he left._

So, when John arrived at the hospital, he was rather shocked to see a contrite-looking Sherlock Holmes, sitting by the front desk, watching as he entered.

 

“Hello, John. I see the Tube was delayed again this morning, and you spilled your tea again. You should stop buying that tea from the station, it’s bad for you.” Sherlock rattled this off without so much as an explanation or simple Hi, I came to apologise.

 

So, when John simply stood there, looking confused, it honestly wasn’t his fault.

 

Sherlock just rolled his eyes, and smiled politely at Jean, the woman at the reception desk. Jean, who had heard a lot about Sherlock from John (mostly when John ranted about him after an early-morning row about something or another), smiled back, seemingly enthralled.

 

He then turned to look at John, who had gotten past confusion and well into annoyance. “What the hell are you even doing here, Sherlock? I thought you said you had a case!” John muttered.

 

Sherlock looked haughty at this, as he responded, sharply, “Barely even a two, even less interesting without you there to babble on about me. I figured I might as well come and see what you thought was so bloody interesting about these children that you found it necessary to abandon me on a case.”

 

John stood there for a second, back to confusion. He wasn’t certain, but he thought Sherlock might have admitted he wanted John around. He only ever did that when he was about to do something questionable, or something he knew John wouldn’t like.

 

“Are you up to something, Sherlock? An experiment? A last ditch effort at curing your boredom? Collecting samples for your bloody work?”

 

Sherlock looked scandalised. “John! These are children, I wouldn’t experiment on children! And either way, I’ve received all the specimens of certain diseases that I will need in the near future, with a little help from some of the nurses here. Lovely ladies, very kind. And then I decided to wait for you to get here. I visited the children for a little earlier, to tell them you’d be late. They all looked rather impressed by me, have you been telling stories again? Anyway, we’ve been standing here much too long, must go now or we’ll miss the show.” With that, he reached forward and tugged on John’s arm, pulling him along, as John called out a greeting to Jean with a harried smile, a smile she returned with a grin.

 

As the pair made their way to the children’s ward, John asked, “What did you mean by that, what show?”

 

Sherlock just grinned. “You’ll see, John.”

 

John kept pestering Sherlock for answers, but didn’t get any, and as they arrived, John finally realised what the detective had meant by a show.

 

The youngest children had little drums, which they banged on with single-minded enthusiasm, some of the older ones had recorders and harmonicas, and the eldest ones had what looked to be tiny harps.

 

John watched in awe as they all greeted Sherlock, babbling excitedly about what they’d been doing while he’d been gone, and thank you so much for visiting, and did he really meet the Queen?

 

Some of the younger ones toddled over to John and hugged his legs, grinning up at him. He smiled back and said, “Hello, little ones. I see you’ve met Sherlock then?”

 

Mary, one of the smaller of the two, diagnosed with leukaemia, nodded enthusiastically. “Mistah Homes taught us how to drum! He gave us liddle ones to play wif!” She giggled, and disengaged from John to go back to her drum.

 

Sam, the oldest of the group, smiled from over in his bed. He had been diagnosed with lung cancer at 8, and had been in remission up until two weeks ago, and now he was 14, sitting in a hospital bed, tubes in his nose, machines plugged into him, yet he was able to strum the harp without difficulty. He wheezed, in a voice too raspy for a boy of his age, “Sherlock taught us all how to play, so that we could do something for you. To thank you, that is, for coming to visit so often.” He broke off for a second, catching his breath, before saying, “Not many people come to visit me. My family, some of the nurses, but never as often as you. So, we all decided we wanted to thank you. For caring. And giving us gifts we could never have dreamed of.” He then turned his smile toward Sherlock, who looked rather confused to have such a smile directed his way. “And to you too, Sherlock. Thank you for giving us something to take our minds off dying for a while.”

 

The detective looked rather taken aback, before he said softly, “It was my pleasure. You were all lovely pupils, and I think that John will love it.”

 

John was rather overwhelmed by all of this. This was a side of Sherlock he had never once thought he would see. This caring, giving side, with the kind smile, and the way he acted around the children. He had never thought he would see the man look so…. normal.

 

When Mary got back up, and shuffled John over to one of the seats, he didn’t know what to expect. Perhaps Sherlock planned to instruct them. But, as he saw Sherlock reach over toward a familiar leather case, he realised that wouldn’t be happening.

 

Sherlock retrieved his violin from the case, sparing a glance for John and giving him a lazy smile. Then he retrieved the bow, coating it with rosin, before he turned to look at the children, and he nodded, once.

 

The smallest started first, soft taps of the drums, setting the speed, and as the recorders joined in, they created a soft rhythm, one that the eldest finished with a light harmony, and John was left awestruck. And then the violin started.

 

High, lingering notes, mingled with the lower notes of the harp, and the sweet sound of the recorder, and soft, lulling melodies carried John away. He closed his eyes, a smile rising to his face not of his own accord, and he just listened.

 

Before he knew it, the music slowly tapered off, with a final lingering note, and John opened his eyes to see Sherlock watching him, his eyes lit up with something, something John could not name, and then there was clapping, so much clapping from the crowd that had gathered at the door while John wasn’t paying attention, and he could do nothing but join them, clapping, smiling, and Sherlock smiled back, that smile filled with the same something that he had seen in his eyes, and John thought to himself, I will always want to see that smile. It wasn’t a thought that shocked him, just simple fact. He would never want to be apart from this man, not really. Perhaps not ever. And as he sat there, watching Sherlock smile at the children, Mary hugging his legs tightly, one of the small children in his arms, John felt a piece of his life fall into place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This theme was 'giving'.  
> \---  
> So, if anyone had noticed, I've been offline for the past few days, apologies for that.  
> I will be able to post all this week, due to school and online availability, but otherwise, I will be off for an unforseeable time.  
> Posting this during chemistry, so gotta go.  
> \---  
> Have a nice day, feedback and such are hella appreciated! :)


	6. Drunken Games Are The Best Kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dynamic duo get drunk. Too much alliteration I know, but there's sexual tension so shut up  
> \---  
> Yo, here i am back with another chapter, only online for this week   
> also does anyone know how to queue posts for later so I can do that?  
> \---  
> Feedback is hella appreciated!

It was a snow day, and I was bored. Mind-numbingly bored, incessantly bored, incomparably bored! John had left an hour ago to go on some tedious little errand, probably meeting his sister, or going to buy more tea. The man always needed a bloody life supply of tea; all that tea is probably melting his brain. It’s much too late for him to be out, especially in this weather, there was a snowstorm imminent, the weather reports were saying, in an hour or so. John is still out, perhaps I should find him. Yes, I should go get John, go look for him, it would be very unfortunate should he be lost in the storm, so I should go look for him.

The door opens, and I jump up as John enters, face flushed with cold, arms full of groceries. I step forward to take some of the bags, and he shoots me a bewildered look. I get rather offended at this. Am I honestly so cruel to him that I won’t even help when he looks close to freezing and dying away?

Oh, yes, speaking of that, I lead John over to his armchair and sit him down. He’s babbling on about the groceries, and tea and I want to do nothing more than just bend down and kiss him into silence. Wait. Where did that come from? That’s not the usual response to his babbling. Need more data on this. Perhaps I should ask him. Wait, no, asking if he can kiss John is an act labelled ‘a very not good idea, one that should be thrown aside instantly’. Perhaps not. Maybe… no, not that.

I must have been standing there, looking at him, for a lot longer than I thought, because the next thing I hear is John’s voice exclaiming, “Sherlock!”. I look at him, and he looks rather uncomfortable, and more than a little confused. I just mutter softly, “Apologies. Was in my Mind Palace. Uh, just sit there, I’ll go make tea.”

“You? Make tea?” He calls after me as I go into the kitchen and retrieve two mugs. I retrieve my usual mug, along with the mug I recently bought, and place one of the teabags I bought in his cup, as I prepare coffee for myself. I set the kettle to boil, and sigh to myself. I still have so many more experiments to be done, including the newer ones, with the samples of different stages of skin decomposition, as well as the samples of diseases I got from the nurses at the hospital that day… No, stop, bad idea, you’ll just start thinking about him again, I admonish myself. Then I backtrack, frowning. Wait, again? This implies I think of him often, him meaning John, John meaning the small, unassuming army doctor, my blogger, my… oh, yes, _definitely_ not thinking about this now.

The kettle is boiled, and I prepare John’s tea, no sugar, splash of milk, just the way he seems to prefer, before preparing my own coffee, perhaps going a bit heavy on the sugar, but that is no matter.

I bring John’s mug over to him, setting it near him, and he gives me a grateful, if still slightly confused, smile. I smile back, but that smile fades as the flat suddenly goes dark. The streetlights dim and go out, and John sighs wearily, before he gets up and goes to light the fire, and I go to retrieve the candles to set about the flat on such occasions.

The tea and coffee go cold as we go about lighting candles, setting them down, and I go about searching for the scotch I left in my bedroom closet, I must have left it in here somewhere, aha! I retrieve it from underneath a tattered suit jacket, and smile before heading back out and grabbing some glasses. The tea and coffee are well past optimum drinking temperature, John would just find it lukewarm, and I had noticed about a month ago, that one of John’s least favourite things is lukewarm tea. So, I went and placed our drinks in the kitchen by the sink, so that John could empty and wash them later.

Then, I went to sit down by the fire, back braced against my armchair, and I pour myself a glass of the scotch as I wait for John to return.

\--

John ends up sitting in a position like mine, back against his own armchair, and I hand him a glass of his own, one he tosses back with a practiced air, as if he does it all the time. Makes sense, with his family history, that he can look so natural with a glass in his hand. The light from the fire reflects off the glass, throwing soft patterns of colour onto his face and hand, his blue eyes calm and soft, as always. I take another drink to distract myself from his eyes, then another, and another, and soon, I’m drinking straight from the bottle, but I don’t care at this point, I just need another distraction.

Soon, John turns giggly and happy, like what edges he has are softened, and he seems almost blurry in my eyes. But perhaps that might be the alcohol. My words didn’t seem to be coming out right, so it was a wonder that John understood me as I mumble, “Wanna play sumthin’? Could be a- a.. Hmm, what were those called? Ah, yeah a game, wanna play one?”

I was screaming at myself, Oh, you absolute moron, how the bloody hell did you mess that up? As John replies, with not a hint of a slur, voice full of humour, “Sure, alright, let’s play. What do you suggest?”

And I hear myself say, “Truth or dare, Johnny, let’s play that. I can tell you the truth, and you can be daring. Or perhaps, the other way ‘round. Either way works.” And my inner protests grow even louder, even as John chuckles and nods.

As we pass the bottle back and forth, asking questions, I learn that John has a tattoo of a gun on his right thigh (which he refused to show me, more’s the pity) and that he and his sister are fraternal twins. Always something, I guess. He learns that I had been interested in becoming a guitarist as a child, instead of a violinist, that I had once kept a teddy as a child (I didn’t mention the fact that its name was John), and that I had very much been showing off that first meeting at Bart’s.

And as dares go, I manage to get John to stick his head outside and scream, I got him to  attempt to walk on his hands (ended in disaster, as well as a bruised hip) and he manages to get me out of my shirt (something I was still rather perplexed about, he said that it was to count the scars on my back, but I caught a faint blush as he looked away), and he also got me to sing to the skull (something I was also perplexed about, but John looked rather appeased by the end, as well as a hint of something I refused to put a name to).

The bottle had been emptied for about five minutes, and we lay opposite each other, lying on our stomachs, faces propped on our arms. I’m a little over an inch away from his nose, and I can smell the now-familiar scotch on his breath.

The snow outside piled up, mounds of white on the street. I watch my calm doctor, my fierce doctor, my amazing, wonderful, fantastic blogger, as he smiles lazily at me. I can’t do a thing but smile back, watching in wonder as those eyes- strange eyes, blue in the firelight, brown in the face of danger, always changing, always watchful, always extraordinary, always utterly beautiful- light up in response.

The empty bottle sits between us, and we both watch raptly as it throws rainbow patterns all over the floor and walls, and suddenly I see the prism of light and colour reflected in those remarkable, marvellous eyes, all the different colours, rich cobalt, yellow, violet, green, all shimmering away in those eyes.

Then I hear him whisper quietly to me, voice full of warmth and something I still refuse to name, “It’s your turn now, Sherlock.”

Oh, yes. The game. I’d forgotten about that. Strange, I never usually forget things, I usually delete them. Nothing about John seemed to be anything that I could delete, he’s everywhere, in every room, every attic, hallway, dungeon and basement in my Mind Palace, and I want to do nothing but tell him this, but I can’t, he would leave, so instead I murmur back, “Truth or dare, John?”

He grins and responds, voice low and soft, “Dare.”

Ah, yes, always up for a challenge, my John.

“I…” I can’t tell him, won’t be able to, but the alcohol gives me an idea. If I can’t tell him, I can show him, just for tonight, just in this one moment, and if he doesn’t want me, I can just blame it on the alcohol, and we can go back to the way it usually is. Now or never, I guess. “I dare you to k-“

Suddenly, light. Bright. Blinding. Really unwelcome.

John bolts up, watching me with an indecipherable expression, and that’s not right, I should be able to decipher all of his expressions. I get up as well, before I clear my throat and slur out, “Perhaps it’s time for bed. I’ve most likely had more than enough alcohol to last me the rest of the year.”

He looks at me as if knowing that isn’t what I want to say. But he says nothing, instead going about turning off the lights and blowing out the candles around the flat. I join him. Soon, I am standing by the door to my bedroom, John by the stairs.

I say quietly, “Goodnight, John,” because there is nothing else to say, what else could I possibly say? And I open the door before I hear,

“I would have done it.” John’s voice is quiet, barely audible, and if it were any quieter, I would never have heard him say it. I look at him, but he is already halfway up the stairs. “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

I nod and say nothing, unable to trust my voice, an unfamiliar and unwelcome feeling, watching his back as he leaves. Then, after I hear his door shut with a sharp click, I enter my room, collapsing in my bed. I don’t sleep that night, instead visualising a kiss that never came, and maybe never will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although one couldn't guess, the theme was 'snowstorm'.  
> Welcome to the world of shittily written sexual tension, you are welcome  
> \---  
> Seriously do people know how to queue works  
> \---  
> Kudos and stuff are hella good


	7. Too Much Mistletoe, To Be Honest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is displeased by the Christmas decorations  
> Shit finally happens  
> Kissing  
> You're welcome  
> \---  
> Kudos and feedback are always welcome!

John Watson wakes in the morning with three things. One, a headache and fuzzy mouth, two, a linen shirt that looked (and smelled) a little like Sherlock’s, and three, the sinking feeling that he might have tried to kiss his flatmate in the midst of drunken dares.

All in all, not the best way to start the day.

The blonde stumbles down the stairs, shrugging his robe on, and goes into the kitchen to go make tea. Sherlock doesn’t seem to be up yet, though there is a rather strange groaning sound coming from the direction of his room, so perhaps he was. John smiles to himself. Poncy bastard’s probably never had a full-on hangover before.

Sure enough, Sherlock, dressed in nothing but his usual tight trousers, hobbles out of his room, looking like death warmed over, before sitting gingerly down in his chair.

He looks up at John, and smiles ruefully. “You aren’t making tea, by any chance, are you?”

John swallows what he really wants to say is, what precisely happened last night, why do I have your shirt, and why do I feel as if we kissed? Before he says, softly, “Yeah, I can make some tea.”

Sherlock tenses at something he must hear in John’s voice, and sits stiffly, silently, until John brings him his tea, only then uttering a soft thanks, before rising again and going back into his bedroom.

The doctor sighs, taking a long sip of his own tea. Today is going to be absolutely wonderful, I bet. He thinks this to himself with a bitter smile.

\--

Belle stops by at around midday, sheepishly asking if she could have John’s assistance with the groceries. At the sound of her voice, Sherlock bounds out, asking for messages. Belle, who looks rather flustered at the sight of Sherlock’s bare chest, shakes her head, and says, “Apologies, sir, I haven’t received anything, though go ask Rina, I heard she might have something. I just came to see John today.” She looks embarrassed at this, and John grins.

“Hey, I have no problem with that. At least someone would be keeping me company. This moron’s been nursing a hangover all morning and won’t sit in the same room as me for more than a minute or so.” With that, John grabs his coat, scarf and wallet, before heading out, Belle just behind him.

\--

Tesco seemed to already be decorated for the holiday season, and God, did it show.

Tinsel looked as if it were half choking the displays, baubles hanging from the ceiling, wreaths hanging on every patch of empty wall, and massive cardboard cut outs of Santa, his elves, and his reindeer.

It was an unsettling display to be honest, and what made it worse was all the bloody mistletoe hanging about, as if it were the embodiment of Christmas. John was just glad Sherlock hadn’t decided to follow them this time, he’d rather not see Sherlock’s wry mocking of Christmas, no matter how obvious it was here. John happened to like Christmas, but the detective seemed to be like the bloody Grinch, without all the green. Upon being told this one Christmas, a few years ago, before… well, before, Sherlock had scoffed, and responded with, “Well, I certainly couldn’t actually be green, I don’t have the appropriate pigmentation, though some people…” and then he went on and on about skin pigmentation.

“So,” Belle started, looking slightly uncomfortable. “Hangover, huh? Do you have one too? Did he get up to anything… hm... interesting?”

John started at this, pausing in reaching for some biscuits. “Uh, I don’t have nearly as much of a hangover as him, but I do have a bit of a headache. And, as for interesting… well, things happened.” Not that I remember what things, but I know I’ll remember eventually…

“So, did you guys…” She raised her eyebrows meaningfully, before glancing up at the mistletoe that hung about an inch or so above her head.

At this, however, John just shrugged. “I’d tell you, if I remembered. Past the fifth glass, I wouldn’t be able to remember much, and we emptied the bottle, so the rest of the night was a blank, though I bet he’d remember, which most likely accounts for the not wanting to go near me thing.” He hummed thoughtfully. “D’you think I should bring it up?”

Belle responded, “If you think you can risk it, sure. I mean, Mr. Holmes isn’t precisely one to talk about feelings. The most emotional I’ve seen him get was when he was on the drugs. I mean… God, sorry. I was told not to bring that up.” She looks away, even more uncomfortable.

John stiffens at this, and his words are more clipped than normal as he responds, “So, no bringing it up, then?”

Belle shrugs. “Your choice.”

John nods resolutely, and gives her a tight smile. “Have you got all the stuff on your list?”

“Nothing I can’t find on my own. Thank you again, Mr. Watson. You were very helpful.”

He nods again, and walks away.

\--

He finds himself in a pub, too far away from Baker Street for his liking. He’s on his third pint, and he feels himself getting less and less concerned by the night before. He glances around the bar area, and scoff inwardly at all of the mistletoe hanging off the top of the bar, just above the bartender’s head. Why is everybody so enamoured with mistletoe? Is it just because of the kiss thing?

Ah, yes. Kissing. Something that would be very good right now, we should find someone to kiss, a woman, with curves, and not angles, not tall, no dark hair, gorgeous eyes, sinful lips, no, no, not today, not thinking about this today-

His thoughts are interrupted by the bartender asking, “Another pint then, mate?”

John looks down to see his almost untouched drink is now drained, and he nods slowly.

“Bird troubles, then?” The ruddy-faced man asks as he grabs the glass and refills it.

“You could say that.” John chuckles wryly, thinking just how unlike a woman Sherlock was.

“Ah, bloke troubles. Sorry, mate, not my area, but I can offer some advice, if yer lookin’ for it.”

“Advice? Sure, why not? I need all the advice I can get.”

“Whatever you’re hiding in here for – and don’t deny it, you’re definitely avoiding something- you need to go and talk about it. And not just in that need-to-know way most blokes use, but actually talking.” The man’s face is serious, and John can’t help but nod in response, feeling as if that were the only answer that would fit, and the bartender grins, before saying, “Finish off yer pint, then go.”

John drains the glass, tosses some money at the man, along with a grin that seems more confident than the doctor actually feels, before he leaves, waiting on the corner until a cab appears, and he gets in, the looming sense of something bad dismissed for the moment.

\--

As he steps into the flat, he notices that Sherlock has been out recently. His coat has a damp sheen to it, as if he’s been out in the snow. He would have liked that deduction, John thought, as he went to sit in his armchair.

A soft voice came from the sofa, and it made John jump. “You have questions, then?”

The blonde turned to look at Sherlock, who was lying on the couch, watching him with those steady, unnameable eyes. “Yeah, I think I do. Do you remember what happened last night?”

“Don’t you?” Was the infuriating response.

“No, Sherlock, I don’t, and I’d be grateful if you told me, because you’ve been avoiding me all day, and I want to know why.”

“We drank, though you knew that. We played truth or dare, my idea, and then the power came back on. That’s all, John.” There was no waver in that calm voice, and he did not looks away, still pinning John to the chair with that gaze.

“Bullshit.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at this, before saying, “Excuse me?”

John replied, eyes narrowed, “That’s absolute bullshit, if that were all that had happened, you wouldn’t be acting like I stole your bloody virtue or whatever. So, something happened, and you’re going to tell me what it is.”

“Oh, am I?” He drawled, smirking now.

“Yes. You are, or you’re going to be bloody certain that I won’t be here tomorrow.” John hated pulling out the trump card, he rarely did, but this time it seemed necessary.

And it had its effect. Sherlock instantly froze. His smirk was gone, and what remained was the look of a man who had just lost something precious. “You wouldn’t leave, John. Would you?”

John just nodded, hating the look in those stormy eyes, as if he were about to faint dead away.

Sherlock looked down for a second, composing himself, before murmuring, “I was about to ask you something, before the lights came back on.”

John’s voice was soft when he responded, “And what did you want to ask?

“Oh, John, you can’t be so dim not to notice, I think you understand full well what I was going to ask.” His voice is soft, and almost sad.

John swallows hard. So, he was right. “Why didn’t you ask, then?”

“The lights came on. You got up. The chance was gone, so I didn’t bother. Besides, why would you agree? You wouldn’t, you’re so very obvious in your attraction to women and only women, as you so often vociferously claim. And even if it weren’t true, why would you agree for me?” Yes, that voice was definitely sad now.

John chuckles at this, and Sherlock looks rather offended. But that look is replaced with something else as John replies, “You think I would have said no? And I would’ve thought you’d deduced it by now, you absolute prat. I would’ve said yes in a heartbeat, if you’d asked. I’d do anything you ask, haven’t you realised yet?”

This time, Sherlock swallows hard, and his voice is raspy as he says, “No, I… don’t think I had realised.”

John wasn’t sure who moved first, but then they were both standing, barely an inch apart, and Sherlock inquired softly, “John?”

And John replied, “Yes, Sherlock?”

“Would you…would you kiss me? If I asked?”

John smiled, slowly. “Of course I would.”

“Then… would you?” Sherlock looked at him, eyes filled with that same something that had been there for much too long for John to ignore it.

“Of course.” And John leaned forward that small distance, and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s. Only for a second, before he moved his lips to the pale cheek, to his nose, his forehead, his jaw, the underside of his chin, and then he pulled away, still with that soft smile.

Sherlock looked as if someone had taken him apart and put him back together, only slightly different. His eyes were dazed, dark and tumultuous, and they kept flicking back and forth from John’s eyes to his lips, not sure which to focus on. When he could focus enough to form proper words, he only stuttered out, “You didn’t kiss me properly.”

“No, I didn’t. If I’m going to kiss you, really kiss you, I want to be sober enough to remember it in its entirety, and I want to be absolutely sure that you want it, not just because I’ve been a distraction and you needed a question answered. So, I’m not going to tonight, and I might not for a while, but I will.” John’s voice was low, full of unspoken promise, and he smiled at the tremor that went through the taller man’s body.

They stood there for what seemed like hours, just watching, before Sherlock took a slow step back, and murmured, in a voice that sounded more like a purr than anything, “Let it be soon, then.” And he turned, heading into his bedroom.

John stood there for a second, willing himself to move, before muttering, “Bloody hell, I must have gone mad.”

And then he headed up the stairs, thinking to himself, _I just kissed him. I kissed Sherlock Holmes. And, by God, I want very much to do it again._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The theme for this chapter was 'When Christmas Comes To Town'.  
> Sorry for all the chapter spam, just getting back up to date!  
> \---  
> Also, as I have mentioned, I have a tumblr, same user name as my AO3 name, doilooklikeicareatall.  
> \---  
> Feedback is welcome, have a lovely day! <3


	8. Our Living Room Is A Mess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Declarations of affection are unwarranted and unexpected, also not quite what John was expecting.  
> \---  
> Hope you enjoy reading, as this one took a bit to write :3  
> Tenses are really annoying urghh

I get up at about five in the morning, still unable to sleep, my lips still tingling, a strange response to tactile stimulation, but nevertheless addictive. _He really did kiss me. Well, not properly, but he will. I hope._ I was still mulling this over as I stepped into the kitchen. John wasn’t up yet, wouldn’t be for at least an hour or so. I rather want to be here when he gets up, see if he wants to forget all about last night, or if he was serious.

 _If I’m going to kiss you, really kiss you, I want to be sober enough to remember it in its entirety, and I want to be absolutely sure that you want it, not just because I’ve been a distraction and you needed a question answered._ John’s words, low and throaty, still sit in the front of my mind. A distraction? Yes, a little. But did he really think I wanted him to kiss me because he hadn’t the night before? Oh, poor John, such a boring little mind, to honestly think that I would do something as stupid as that. I wanted to kiss him, well, I don’t know why yet. Need more data. Perhaps an experiment is in order…. No, John said not to experiment on him anymore. Hm….

The idea dawned on me, and I hurriedly changed into a white dress shirt, along with my usual suit, threw on my shoes and socks, grabbed my wallet, and shrugged my jacket on as I was walking out the door. I hailed a cab, and told him to take me to the nearest place that was selling Christmas trees. Then I wound my scarf around my neck and waited.

\--

For early in the morning, the market was very crowded. Women were the majority of the crowd, and it was terrifyingly simple to deduce half of them. _Married and wanting kids, having an affair, having three affairs, wanting a divorce but she can’t tell her husband, lesbian but she can’t tell her boyfriend_ , the list went on. I honestly didn’t know how John could surround himself with women, they were all so vapid.

After a minute or so of wandering, I found the area where there was a group of people hanging around the truck containing the trees.

I strode up to them, and glanced around, before asking one of the men, presumably the leader, given the pouch hanging from his hip, “How much for the trees?”

“Ah, just six quid for the small ones, ten for the larger ones, which do you prefer?” He grinned, a few of his teeth missing, and by sheer force of will, I refrained from gagging.

“Probably the smaller ones, me and my girlfriend only have a tiny flat so we don’t have a lot of room for a tree.” I affect an embarrassed shrug. “She insisted, though.” I smile politely, and he smiles back.

“Take your pick, then!” The man says, gesturing at the smallish group of trees. I glance over them, assessing which will lose its needles quicker- _don’t want to have to clean it up later, John will be upset if I don’t though, so I might as well get the cleanest one_ \- which will hold all of John’s silly little ornaments that I found in a box in one of the cabinets, and which one would be easiest to get into the flat. Eventually, I pick one of the medium-sized ones out of the row, and hand the man some money (accidentally gave him 10 quid- oh well) before remarking dryly, "I might just take it with me in the cab.” He laughs at this, though I was being entirely serious.

 

Turns out none of the cabs would take a tree that could possibly litter pine needles all over. So I took the Tube- _thank God I still had an Oyster card from the case where the conductors were all being murdered after the trains reached the end of their route, rather reminiscent of that horror film John insisted on watching a few months ago_ \- and I arrived home with nineteen minutes to spare before John came downstairs.

I managed to prop up the tree over in the corner, by the bookcase, and I went downstairs to ask Mrs. Hudson for some decorations, but she was still out.

By the time I returned upstairs, John was staring in awe at the tree. As I entered, he looked at me. “There’s a tree.” He observes, still rather dumbstruck.

I respond, “Yes, John, obviously there is a tree. Would you like to know how it got there or would you like to continue just standing there?”

He straightens at that, before turning to me fully. He’s wearing the nice dressing gown today ( _lovely_ ) and his hair is still rumpled from sleep ( _mm, even more lovely_ ).

“Sherlock, what is a tree doing in our living room, and why is said room now a total mess?”

I reply, “I thought you might like a tree for this year, something traditional to put all those little ornaments on. Besides, I got bored waiting for you to get up, so I decided to do something productive.”

He is still dumbstruck, and he ends up stuttering out,( _adorably, I might add. Hm, this sentiment thing really is strange. Not the point here though_ ) “You… got a tree… for me?”

I just nod. What else can I say? The evidence is clearly in front of him. Not precisely the most obvious declarations of affection, but I thought it might be obvious enough for a man that was a tiny bit smarter than the idiotic masses I surround myself in every day.

But, no. All he says is, “So how did the room get to be a mess?” with not so much as a change in expression.

I roll my eyes- inwardly and outwardly- before responding with, “Well, I had to get it inside, then move all of it, then move myself out of the way so I could see how it looked. Then I readjusted the position a few times.” All true, but I rather want to see his reaction.

All he does is chuckle fondly before saying, “As long as it’s cleaned up eventually.”

Then he goes into the kitchen to make tea. But, just as he reaches the doorway, he hurries back, and pecks me on the cheek. “Thank you,” he murmurs with bright eyes and a warm smile, before going back to the kitchen, leaving me to stare after him, lost for words for the first time in years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapters theme was 'tree'!  
> \---  
> I also wanted to mention that I'm very grateful for all the hits and the kudos, it's much more than I would have expected for a crappy story like mine! I'm glad you all enjoy it, and all the comments I've received so far have been spectacular.  
> So, thanks to all of you <3


	9. What The Bloody Hell Is This Supposed To Be?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a tiny Christmas store, and a creepy ornament. You're welcome.  
> \---  
> Feedback and such are always hella welcome :)

Sherlock surprised me with a tree yesterday. Can’t say I’m surprised. I mean, most people buy flowers, and go on dates, but I guess we’ve done that bit, well the dating, and he never really does things the way a person should. But nevertheless, I was very pleased.

We haven’t mentioned the night before last, and I don’t think we will for a bit, but he seemed rather delighted by the kiss on the cheek he got in response to the tree. Well, he stared at me most of the day, then smiled and went out, saying he was off to go meet up with one of the people from his Homeless Network. I rather like that smile, it’s a smile I only ever see him give to me.

This morning, I didn’t kiss him, but I did brush his fingers as I handed him his coffee (he was in the middle of an experiment, but he still smiled). _Look at me,_ I thought to myself with a wry grin as I sat in the sitting room with my tea and the newspaper, _pining after someone, and a bloke at that. Though, Sherlock does inspire that in most people, and how could he not?_

“If you’re done thinking about me, John, I was thinking we need to go out and get more ornaments, we have no tinsel, and I set the wreath on fire for an experiment.” Sherlock interrupts my train of thought, and I stammer out ( _Great job, Watson, stuttering and stammering like a teenage girl_ ) “Why would you assume I was thinking about you?”

His expression turns fond, something I’d never seen, and he responds, “You always get this look about you when you do. You always smile just a little, and you seem less tense.”

With that little tidbit of sentiment out of the way, he puts on his jacket, then places his hands on his hips and waits for me to get up. I grumble before I do, and he grins triumphantly after I finally concede.

The cab is already waiting outside, and we get in as Sherlock directs the cabbie to some little shop I’ve never heard of, probably one of the multiple shops that Sherlock has indirectly saved. When we pull up to the front of the shop, and Sherlock pays the cabbie, I look at the shop. Dark red panelling, gold trim, a silver door, and the most amazing Christmas display I’d ever seen. There were beautifully carved Nativity figures, realistic trees, and it all looked splendid.

Sherlock must have seen me watching it in awe because he chuckled, before saying, “Yes, I know, it’s brilliant, come along, John.” Then he took my hand, interlocking his long fingers in my own, before tugging me inside. I was already bewildered by this, so I was even more shocked by the shop. Boxes and boxes of ornaments, what looked like yards of tinsel behind the counter, wrapping paper and boxes galore, and I was in utter awe of the shop that Sherlock had dragged me into.

He looked back at me, assessing my reaction. He must have been pleased, because he squeezed my fingers briefly and gave me a radiant smile, before he let my hand go and he wandered off, in search of the owner.

I wandered about, gazing at the small ornaments and figures, when I noticed a really strange ornament.

It looked like a snowman, but it obviously wasn’t, its face was warped, the arms too long, and the Santa hat it wore hung to the fingertips of the figure. I couldn’t help but mutter to myself, “What the bloody hell is this thing? It’s frankly disturbing.”

Sherlock’s voice suddenly came from beside me, causing me to jump. “It looks to be one of those Halloween-type ornaments, where a well-known figure of Christmas is warped to be terrifying and strange. It looks rather unsettling though, I must agree with you. I most certainly wouldn’t want it on our tree. Also, what tinsel do you want? I was rather partial to silver, but I suppose you’re better with the whole Christmas thing, and you can choose whatever.” He seemed to be rambling, so I turned to him and grabbed his hand, which shut him up fairly well.

I smiled, and said, “Go ahead and get the silver, Sherlock, I’ll just get some ornaments. Though, definitely not this one.” I hold the strange snowman-thing up for emphasis before setting it back down on the shelf, and letting go of his hand again so he could go wandering off.

He looked as if he wanted to say more, but instead just smiled again. A pressure so fleeting I barely noticed suddenly appeared on my right cheek, and Sherlock straightened and walked away without so much as an explanation. I felt my cheeks heat, and silently admonished myself. _Good God, John, you’re practically forty, and you’re still blushing like a third-year about a kiss on the cheek? Embarrassing._

I ended up getting a little snowman ( _though not the freaky-looking one_ ), and a few bits and bobs, as well as a little angel for the top of the tree. Sherlock looked rather bemused, for a reason that he never ended up telling me about.

The shopkeeper, a wizened looking old man, smiled softly as he rang up our purchases, and said, in a papery voice, “So, Sherlock, looks like you were wrong.”

Sherlock said nothing, but his cheeks were dusted with pink. He handed over the money, and then we left.

I never did ask what that man meant. But I think I know what he was trying to say, and he was entirely right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The theme for the chapter is 'ornaments'!  
> \---  
> Oh, if anyone got the joke about the angel thing, I will be rather smug. Again, much thanks for all the views, it makes me happy to see that people like my writing :)  
> \---  
> Have a lovely day, everybody! :)


	10. Do We Really Have To?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock go to get presents. John is frustrated, Sherlock is blushing, and we meet some important people, all in the quest of a gift for Mycroft that won't get Sherlock cut off.  
> \---  
> Back after a LOOONG hiatus (in which I lazed about and wrote every chapter except this one) I am back!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To make up for the lateness, this is probably one of my longest chapters! Enjoy, and apologies again for taking so long to update!

Do We Really Have To?

\---

The tree had been decorated when the two returned, and because John was still too short to reach the top of the tree, Sherlock placed the angel at the very top. The baubles glimmered amongst the shimmery silver tinsel ( _Something Sherlock was very smug about. “I knew it would look good, John! I excel, even in Christmas decorations.” Then John swatted at his head, and he shut up._ ) and the space under the tree was meticulously clean. After John had asked repeatedly for an hour, Sherlock jumped up and said, irritably, “If you want me to clean up so bloody badly, fine!” And he cleaned. All day. All through the flat. And now the flat was spotless, all except the fridge, which still contained questionably acquired stains, mouldy petri dishes, and frozen vials of blood( _Apparently not human, but John doesn’t really trust Sherlock’s ‘I promise it isn’t dangerous’ face anymore._ ).

The space under the tree looked miserable, John decided after a while of staring at it. So, it was by stubborn orders and a well-placed peck on the cheek that John had managed to drag Sherlock along to buy gifts.

When they arrived at the store, Sherlock immediately said, “We are not buying gifts for my brother.”

John just replied, “Yes we are.”

Suddenly, Sherlock received a text. He took one glance at the screen, narrowed his eyes, and turned the phone off.

“Mycroft?” John asked with a wry smile. Sherlock just grumbled.

\--

The gifts were small. A nice blend of coffee for Lestrade –he was always grumbling about how awful the coffee at the Yard was-, a set of mittens and a lilac scarf for Molly, who always seemed to be shivering outside when Sherlock and John left the lab at St. Barts (usually at strange and ungodly hours of the night and morning), a new set of knitting needles and aubergine wool for Mrs Hudson, who complained that she was running out one morning when she came to bring up some mail for the two of them. Harry got a coffee mug and some nice shoes (John never knew what to get her, so Sherlock grudgingly picked them, saying that Harry had taken to drinking coffee obsessively in her new-found sobriety, and that her sneakers sounded worn out by the tread of them while John was on the phone to her.)(How Sherlock knew that was rather worrying.)

Suddenly, Sherlock was leading them out of sight of the many CCTV cameras that littered the store and grumbled, “What do I get for the fat, ungrateful bastard?”

John chuckled. “Not my place, not my brother. Thank God for that.”

“But John,” Sherlock practically whined, voice dripping with childish petulance, “I got a present for your sister, you can at least try get a present for my brother.”

“But it isn’t as if I know what to get him! He has his bloody brollys, he has a watch, all the bloody clothes he’ll ever need…” he trails off, eyes suddenly sparkling with mirth. “Ah. I can get him a cake.”

“Sherlock,” John warned, “Don’t do this again, you know how he reacts to those sorts of things. Then he’ll cut you off again, and we both know what happened last time he did that.”

 

Sherlock had deleted it apparently, but John clearly remembered the air of petulance hanging over the flat. Sherlock had ruined at least four shirts, and, without the assistance of the Holmes’ (disturbingly large) trust fund, he was unable to buy new ones. After a grudging (and very much complained about afterward) apology and promise not to mention Mycroft’s weight for the next month and a half (a length that was negotiated to an inch of its life), Sherlock was able to purchase his stupidly posh silk shirts and obscenely tight trousers.

And, God, why did John care so much about Sherlock’s trousers, much less how tight they were? Though… the look of his.. _Oh my Dear Bloody God, NO._

John shook that thought firmly out of his head before muttering, “I’m not helping buy a present for your poncy brother, and that is that. You will pick him something, and it will be something good. You know the things he likes, and the things he doesn’t. You know him better than I do, so-“

He was cut off by a sudden murmur of, “Macaroons.”

John had to look at him for a second, before uttering, dumbly, “What?”

“When Mycroft was 9, and I was 2, my mother used to make macaroons. She was French, so she was a very good cook. She made me pistachio ones, and raspberry ones for Mycroft. They always came warm from the oven, and they reminded me of the little house my family and I grew up in.” Sherlock’s voice was soft, almost fond as he spoke of home.

“Did you grow up in France?” John watches as the myriad emotions flicker over the other man’s face, from sadness, to fear, to anger, to resignation, and finally, to amusement.

“No, my father did, up until I was about 5. We lived in a little cottage in Sussex, Mycroft and I were tutored, and Mother taught art and kept bees.” He looks thoughtful at this. “Perhaps I might do that too, after I’m finished with this.”

“You? Finished with London?” John raises his eyebrows.

Sherlock smiles at this. “I never said finished with London, I just meant finished with the whole consulting detective business.”

The eyebrows raise further.

He smiles a little wider. “Never mind then. Let’s just go. I know where we need to get to now.”

\--

It was a little French patisserie just close enough to London to have a decent customer flow.

The trailing ivy on the outside glistens with dew from the morning still, even as they enter.

A startled, yet pleased exclamation issues from the woman behind the counter, and she hurries around the worn mahogany bench to hug Sherlock tightly. The detective already looks mildly embarrassed.

“Mother, please. You promised no hugging.” His voice almost sounds petulant, and John has to hold back a chuckle.

The woman moves back, and in a clear, lightly accented voice, says, “But, love, you never come to visit, and I miss you ever so much, my darling little ‘Lock.” Sherlock flushes at this, and John lets out a little giggle.

Suddenly, Sherlock’s mother seems to notice him, and beams. Her hair is silver and bright, and her eyes are the piercing grey that John has seen in a certain minor worker in the British Government. But she seems to have none of the edges, the cold sharpness that the Holmes brothers possessed. She seemed warm, inviting, kind. She was slender, much like Sherlock, but she didn’t have the hard edges and lines that he did. She grins lopsidedly, and says, “So, this is the doctor that has vexed my boy so. My has told me rather a lot about you, and I had rather hoped to see you in person eventually. I’m Violet Holmes, and it’s truly a pleasure to finally meet you.”

 

John is rather overwhelmed by this. Sherlock seems to be doing a good impression of a blushing statue. Then, suddenly, John grins, and responds, “It’s lovely to finally meet you as well. I had always wondered where Sherlock got his curls from. I’m John, though I assume Mycroft has already told you everything about me anyway, good and bad.”

She seems even more pleased by this, and, unexpectedly pulls John into a hug, and whispers fiercely to him, “Thank you very much for what you’ve done for my boy.” Then she pulls back, presses a fond kiss to his cheek, then turns to Sherlock, who looks as if he’s about to faint dead away.

“So, Lock, why did you come here? You only come when you need a favour, or if My drags you along. So, is there anything I can do?” She sounds almost put out by this, as if she is just a convenience, and Sherlock flushes even further.

“Well, John told me I had to buy a gift for Mycroft, and I couldn’t think of anything he didn’t already have…” Sherlock sounds uncomfortable admitting that he was buying the gift in the first place.

But, Violet just seems even more pleased at this, and says to John, “You actually managed to make him get a gift for his brother! Never, not since Lock was six years old, have I seen him get a gift for Mycroft. You really are a very good influence!” John looks almost proud at this.

“I didn’t even have to really convince him, honestly. He was just, more or less roped into the idea. He had insisted I find the present, but I told him I wouldn’t. I’m rather glad I told him to get it, otherwise I might never have actually met you.”

“John, I would have introduced you to my mother eventually, I would have had to. You would have gone into a sulk if I hadn’t, and your sulks are almost as bad as mine.”

 

John scoffed. “Not bloody likely.”

(What Sherlock said was actually rather true, when John sulked, it was eerily silent, and John refused to leave his room unless he was making tea. He wouldn’t eat unless he was having tea, and only then it would be a piece of toast. Sherlock hated those times, because when the sulk was over (which took almost a week, half the time), John looked awful. Hair hanging in limp strands, eyes dull, skin sallow. Sherlock could barely look at him in the days following a sulk.)

Sherlock said none of this, though. He just smiled mildly, and responded, “Whatever you say, John.”

Violet watched the two of them with a soft smile. “So, Lock, what can I get for you today?”

Sherlock responds, “Some pistachio macaroons, as well as raspberry and… salted caramel ones.” He frowns slightly as he considers the last ones.

Violet glances at Sherlock in slight surprise for a moment, before regarding John seriously and nodding. “Of course, darling. Only if you promise to call in and visit more. And bring John with you.”

He smiles slightly, and responds, “Of course, Mother. If John will come along, I’ll be happy to bring him. He likes you anyway, though. He, for whatever reason, likes everyone in my family, even Mycroft. Which still alarms me.”

John chuckles. “I have no problem with any of your family, and I’d be happy to come and visit as often as you’d like, Violet. I won’t even drag Sherlock along if he doesn’t want to, and you can tell me all the embarrassing bits about him.”

Sherlock flushes, mumbling, “John, you wouldn’t do that, would you?”

John doesn’t reply, just grinning.

 

Violet grins, her smile reminding John of his lovely boyfriend, and he turned to look at Sherlock, who was smiling, cheeks slightly pink. “You’re a very fine man, John, you’ll suit Sherlock well. I’ll just go and get your macaroons for you, love.” And with that, she bustled back behind the counter, going to get the orders.

John was blushing from the praise, and Sherlock came over to him, kissing his temple. “Mother’s right. You suit me very well, keep me right, and keep me human. I’m very lucky to have you.”

John’s cheeks flushed an even deeper red, and he asked, somewhat jokingly, “You’re being awfully sentimental today, love.”

Sherlock smiles softly at that. “Perhaps I’m just feeling sentimental. It’s not often I visit my mother, let alone with company. If I can’t be sentimental now, when can I be?”

The doctor chuckles, and concedes, “Fine, darling, whatever you say. I like hearing you get all sappy over me.”

The taller man blushes a little at that. “I’m not getting sappy. I don’t get _sappy_. I’m just informing you of the depth of my regard for you.”

“Exactly.  Sappy. But I love it.” John gave him a peck on the cheek, just as Violet returned with three boxes stacked on top of each other. She smiled softly, and said, “The two of you look wonderful together. Here’s your order, love.” She handed the boxes to John as Sherlock took out his wallet to pay. Violet tried to refuse, but he gave her a kiss on the forehead and she happily complied.

As they left, John asked, confusedly, “You said you and your brother only liked one flavour each. What’s with the third box?”

Sherlock replied with a shrug, “Salted caramel suits you. Thought you might like some as well.”

John stared at him for a little, before chuckling and saying, “You’re absolutely impossible, lovely. Come on, let’s get back to the flat so we can eat these. I want to steal a pistachio one.”

And with that, he slung an arm around Sherlock’s waist and led him to the street, where they hailed a cab and headed home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all thankyou for waiting for so long~  
> This chapters theme was.... shit, what was it? GIFTS that was it I did it  
> Sorry for my lack of coordination and overall lateness, never trust me to update on time.  
> \--  
> If you liked my work, and wanna send me a comment, or give it a kudos, that would be absolutely fantastic <3  
> Have a swell day :)


	11. Wait, We're Getting Paid For This?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John reads the mail, finds something he didn't expect to. Sherlock is entirely unsurprised.  
> \---  
> I'll admit I'm bad at summaries, also at writing good stuff.   
> Christ I need a beta or something  
> \---  
> Um feedback and stuff hella  
> Jesus this IT class is boring.

John woke up in a very interesting way after the incident with Sherlock’s mother and the macaroons. He woke up to a very warm, sweaty, half-naked consulting detective curled around him, mumbling sleepily in French. John did not question this, and only wondered, ‘ _How did I ever survive without this?_ ’

After reluctantly untangling himself- Sherlock had intertwined his lanky legs in John’s short ones, and refused to disengage- and getting out of bed, he slid his robe on, padding drowsily down the stairs, scrubbing a hand over his face, and going into the kitchen to start the kettle up and begin making his morning tea.

 

He was waiting for the tea to steep when suddenly; a loud, sleepy baritone erupted from upstairs, calling, “Jooooohn, where did you go?” John said nothing, smiling, and beginning to make Sherlock his coffee. He was just adding the sugar when a warm chest pressed up against his back, and a sleepy face pressed against his neck. “Joohhnn, I woke up, and you weren’t there, and it was utterly dreadful,” Sherlock groaned into the nape of John’s neck, huffing out a sleepy breath.

John smiled ruefully to himself. Of course Sherlock could slide into his bed one night out of nowhere, and act like he’d been doing it forever the next morning. He turned, and said, “I made coffee, forgive me?” he grinned, and surveyed the sleepy man.

Sherlock looked, for the lack of a better word, rumpled. His hair was flat on one side and frazzled on the other, the imprint of a pillow pressed into his face, showing in stark contrast to the rest of his skin. His eyes were unfocused and hazy, pupils dilated, and a light sheen of sweat covered his pale, bare chest.  When his gaze drifted back up from Sherlock’s chest, the detective had already taken the coffee, eyes focused, and a lazy smile curving his lips.

 

John looked away, flustered, taking his tea and going to sit himself down in his armchair, sorting through the pile of mail sitting on the small table beside him. Mrs Hudson had begun leaving the mail for John to deal with, because when Sherlock was left to do it, the mail would go ignored, and by extension, so would the bills. John realized this, and was somewhat annoyed. One of the popular arguments was “‘I _like having hot water in my bloody shower, Sherlock!’ ‘What’s the point of keeping the water hot? Its water, it’ll get you clean all the same! Now go out and get some milk, we ran out yesterday.’ “Then_ John ended up hitting Sherlock, and Sherlock decided the letters were best left to John. After sorting through the usual bills, creepy fan mail, and letters from his father, he came across a letter from the Yard. Well, from Lestrade anyway.

He frowned slightly, opening the letter. Inside was a cheque, and John’s eyes almost popped out of his head at the amount. He gaped at it for a while, and continued to until Sherlock made a huff of sound and came over to see what had surprised John so, smiling bemusedly at the blonde when he saw the cheque.

“Honestly John, you’re doing a splendid impersonation of a goldfish. This is just Lestrade paying me, or, well us, for my consulting services.” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.

John couldn’t help but blurt out in surprise, “Wait, we get paid for that?”

Sherlock huffs out a frustrated breath, plopping down onto his armchair. He said sharply, “You really think I’d deal with the likes of Anderson and Donovan for _free_? I like cases, but no crime scene is worth that.”

John let out a chuckle at that, and asked, “So where does all this money go? Is it for your experiments? New beakers?”

Sherlock smiled bashfully, looking away. “I use the money from that to pay the bills.”

The blonde was taken aback for a few beats, watching Sherlock, before smiling softly, and murmuring, “Thank you, Sherlock.”

A faint blush crossed the taller man’s cheeks, and he said softly, “It’s not a problem, really. Makes me feel like I’m helping out.”

John chuckles joyfully. “Certainly makes up for the pigs eyes where the teabags are meant to be.”

 

The detective looks exceedingly pleased at this, and looks at John in consideration for a little while, before getting up and taking out his violin and bow, giving them a soft smile.

John sits up straighter, watching Sherlock in anticipation. “You’re going to play?” he asks softly, and Sherlock nods slightly, standing up straighter and settling the bow under his chin. A final fond smile in John’s direction before indecipherable eyes closed, and an eerily sweet song filled the air of the flat.

The song felt like joy. It felt like the churning excitement at the beginning of a promising case, the brilliance than surrounded John’s brilliantly mad genius, and John suddenly realised that Sherlock really was _his_ mad genius, because who else would Sherlock ever play this for? This song of pure, unadulterated happiness, one that reminded you of macaroons warm in the oven, and a small boy chasing honeybees and a dog. No one could ever say that Sherlock had played that song just for them, because it was all of Sherlock. Every happy moment, every memory he held dear, all poured into one achingly sweet melody.

And throughout all of this, Sherlock swayed gently, torso twisting about, muscles shifting under pale and slightly sweaty skin. A reminiscent smile softened his usually sharp face, and John thought him ethereal in that moment. He knew he was waxing poetic about his flatmate, and he would berate himself for that later, but, in that moment, his mad genius was an ethereal being, glowing with happiness. He opened one eye, and the smile widened, as John basked in the glow that Sherlock showered upon him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's theme was 'money' c:  
> Hope you enjoyed it, if you'd like to send feedback, it would be appreciated!  
> I'm working on getting all of these chapters updated as soon as humanly possible, (not that I've even finished the entire series, which I should really get back to doing) but expect highly irregular updates until it's done.  
> \---  
> Kudos and stuff are always great c:


	12. Hangovers and City Lights are a Very Bad Mix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A night out with the guys, becomes the next day. Basically, John and Greg have a hangover, Sherlock couldn't care less, exhausting days are had.  
> \---  
> Hope you enjoy, sorry for the short chapter!  
> Feedback is hella <3

Greg Lestrade liked drinking. He was a police officer, so he never drank to excess. He was (recently) single, so no one cared when he came home late. He came home last night, slightly jealous after a night out with an ecstatically cheerful John. A cheerful John and, surprisingly, a cheerful Sherlock came to pick him up. The two of them must have finally figured things out.

John couldn’t help but smile all night, content after Sherlock’s impromptu violin performance. Greg seemed almost suspicious of John’s happiness that night. The blonde had probably drank way too much that night, collapsing into bed fully clothed, only to have Sherlock arrive a few minutes later, grumbling about not telling him he was going to bed as he settled in against John’s back.

\---

Neither Greg Lestrade, nor John Watson, appreciated the hangover that followed the next morning. Greg awoke in a warm and empty bed. John did too, but Sherlock arrived a few minutes later with tea and painkillers, so it didn’t really count. Greg groaned softly and clutched his head as he sat up, thanking whatever higher power existed that he didn’t have work that day. John, however, was already in a cab, forehead pressed against the cold glass as Sherlock babbled happily next to him about diseased livers and their effects on mortality. Neither of them were happy with their situation. Greg wanted to go back to sleep, while John just wanted Sherlock to shut up for a little.

The lights in the lab of St. Bart’s were not really the best lights for a person with a raging hangover, and the colourful and blinking Christmas lights strung up around the lab were just salt in the awfully painful, light-sensitive wound. John blinked blearily at a string of fairy lights as Sherlock peered into the microscope, still babbling even after John had none-too-kindly asked him to _shut the fuck up, you owe me for dragging me out of the flat this early in the bloody morning_.

The evening did not progress any better for John, unlike Greg, who had gotten his much needed sleep and was now preparing a frozen pizza for dinner. After Sherlock had finished with the analysis of some livers, he decided he would go and get Thai food. At the store just near Baker Street, on foot. Because Sherlock didn’t have the money for more cab fare, and John had forgotten his wallet as he’d been practically shoved out the door. 

John only let out a soft groan of protest and a silent ‘ _why must I be saddled with this utter git?’_ before striding off in the direction of home, Sherlock catching up with him. Even after so long of being awake, the Christmas lights blinking in the shop windows were almost blinding to John, and the headlights of cars, cabs and motorbikes seemed to attempt to burn out John’s retinas. So he stared stubbornly at the ground as they walked, Sherlock remaining uncharacteristically quiet.

The Thai food was pretty good, in the end.

 

 

At about 9pm, Greg was already asleep, after finishing his pizza and watching some bad telly on his dingy couch. John however, was just returning to the flat, sore and exhausted. Sherlock, who was slightly drowsy now, had decided after the Thai food that he would go and get another present for Mrs Hudson. After John wrapped the present (Sherlock couldn’t wrap anything), he placed it under the tree, going upstairs and stripping to his boxers before he slid into bed. Sherlock arrived a few minutes later, clad in just his blue pyjama pants. He looked at John for a little, before getting in beside him.

“You’re very warm, John,” the detective mumbled, cuddling up contently against the man’s back like a tall, lanky genius cat. John leaned back against Sherlock’s chest, smiling slightly.

“And you’re very cuddly in bed,” John remarked in response. Sherlock let out a little giggle, responding softly, close to John’s ear, “You don’t know how affectionate I am in bed yet, not entirely.”

John flushed at this, mumbling, “Not yet, but I figure I’ll find out eventually.”

Sherlock pressed a tiny kiss to the nape of John’s neck, asking, “When?”

John smiled bemusedly. “Perhaps as a Christmas present. You might like it better than the present I’ve already got for you.”

Sherlock grinned, kissing his neck again. “Nice Christmas present. Perhaps I’ll actually look forward to the holiday now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm fairly certain the theme for this one was 'lights' but I can barely even remember anymore :c  
> Now I need to remember what chapter came after this one, and we should be all good ;)  
> \---  
> If you liked stuff about this chapter, or need to correct me about my bad spelling/grammar, just leave me a comment! I love comments :3  
> Have a hella swell day, and thank you all for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> This challenge was created by AikoIsari, and I'll try post one a day until Christmas!  
> EDIT: I didn't end up doing that, but it will all be updated eventually!
> 
> Happy Holidays, everybody!


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